Sharing the Good Life

I spread out my well-worn Hudson Bay point blanket under the broad branches of the coast redwood in the front yard, a tree teeming with birds, the occasional red-shouldered hawk perched on the crown. The sky was hazy and overcast, clouds broken and scattered by bullying gusts of wind, which encouraged everything around me to dance — the trees, the tall and tender new grass, and the wildflowers, whose delicate beauty belied their tenacity. At the top of the mountain, air rushing through the thick boughs of a hundred trees imitated the sound of massive waves, and expelled the scent of the ocean (though it was nearly an hour west), as it mingled with the spicy, sweet fragrance of cypress.

It was really too cool to be outdoors and lying in the open air, shoes off — at least for a Californian. But my roots were in Michigan, and this crisp, moist air felt exactly like end-of-winter melt-off, a cue to throw on some Bermuda shorts and stoke up the charcoal grill. I wanted to soak up every bit of the ocean’s wetted, briny breath, even at the cost of my comfort. I had traveled a long way to live in this place, to imbibe this life-sustaining mist. After all these years, it was familiar and soothing, and the cool of it permeated my soft tissue and settled deep into my bones. I could barely smile, so cold were my cheeks — the muscles numb, my amalgam fillings aching.

Back indoors, I thawed out, dense tingling unfurling from the tips of my ears down to my toes. Stripping down to my underwear, I buried myself deep under my duvet, then drifted off to dreams of the ocean, its primordial perfume lighting up my brain with calming imagery — places known, yet unknown. For a good long while, I lingered in this preconscious state, trying to wake myself so I wouldn’t miss my usual dinner hour. But my head was heavy, and I hadn’t the strength to lift it from my pillow. Then there was a loud thud, so strong it rattled the bookshelf next to my bed. Strong winds had thrown a heavy branch across the side of the house. Now I was awake.

Though it was now early evening, I put on a pot of coffee as I had a long evening of work ahead. I sipped a first cup as I warmed up my dinner: matzo ball soup and a slice of toast slathered with butter and honey — my honey. I devoured this concoction as I planned out my setup for the following day’s farmers market and applied labels to jars. The market was held each Tuesday, and the one before Easter was typically the busiest of the year. Ironically, spring was the least productive time for the bees, which meant I was often short on product. Every jar of my honey would get sold in two hours, the last hour bringing disappointment to all but those looking for bee pollen and honeycomb.

My winter honey, which was harvested in early spring, was popular for its intense flavor, the dark amber liquid tasting strongly of buckwheat with hints of the redwood and manzanita blossoms near my hives. Though too heavy-handed for high tea, winter honey was perfect on a hot, toasted slice of sprouted multigrain or on buckwheat pancakes just off the griddle. If Northern California had a flavor, this would be it. The chaparral ecosystem on the ranch defined the head and bass notes of this nearly opaque honey’s perfume.

After working well past midnight, I enjoyed a short but deep slumber, awaking around 4:00 a.m. to the sound of barred owls dueting in the redwoods outside my bedroom window, their extended bel canto nudging me to consciousness and bringing a smile to my face. I made my way to the bathroom in the dark and made my usual ablutions, then it was on to the kitchen, where I chugged down a large mug of the cold brew I’d made the night prior, adding a generous pour of half-and-half to soften the acrid flavor resulting from its oxidation. Amped up, I headed down to the storage room, handtruck in tow, to gather my products of the hive: jars of winter honey, as well as star thistle and black sage from the previous fall, stacks of boxed honeycomb, and packets of bee pollen. Then, a few framed recipes and a stack of my cookbooks. All else resided in my crusty old SUV — tent, tables, cash box, and linens. I loved that vehicle, whose once bright paint was now a matte pear green. Mine was one of those early SUVs, equipped with manual window and seat adjustments, an analog radio, and a rear-mounted spare. It still had spunk, and in its rustic state, one might have imagined it had seen its share of rugged terrain. Reality was a bit different, as the vehicle was prone to rollovers, like all the SUVs of its day, so it had been relegated to transporting my products of the hive to farmers’ markets throughout the Bay Area and taking the occasional camping trip with friends.

Off I set for my local market, which was held in a vacant parking lot across from the courthouse. I arrived to a flurry of vendors setting out overflowing crates of fruits and vegetables, pantry products, baked goods, yogurt, eggs, and butter, as well as Mediterranean dips. There were always a few vendors with hot food items who had arrived an hour earlier. They served up everything from rotisserie chicken, pupusas, and breakfast burritos to dim sum, fresh pasta, and fruit smoothies. Within an hour, it was showtime, with hundreds of locals arriving promptly by bus, bike and car, and on foot.

I cued up some Edith Piaf on my mini Bose speaker and struck up conversations with passersby, many of them familiar faces. Those who frequented the market were loyal to their farmers and purveyors. They came every week, rain or shine. I had my own set of regulars — folks who stopped by weekly for a jar, apparently enjoying honey on their oatmeal every morning. Others told me that they kept a large jar in the pantry for cooking or tea, or in the medicine cabinet for allergies. In the fall, many bought in bulk, packing their larders with honey for the upcoming months of hibernation. There was an understanding that cold weather sparked a craving for sweets and that the supply of honey in the hives would dwindle in the cold months — so best to stock up, right? Add to that the fact that less honey was harvested as the winter solstice approached — some would be needed for the bees themselves. They would form their winter clusters, staying in their hives most of the time to keep warm and remain near their main source of sustenance: their honey.

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At the market, there was an older couple who always caught my attention. Both husband and wife had elegant Parisian accents and were always stylishly dressed and coiffed for their weekly shopping excursions. Arm in arm, they would swing by their favorite booths (mine being one of them), offering a bit of polite conversation, then tasting the seasonal offerings. Eyes closed and lips puckered, they would make a bit of gentle cooing when sampling my honeys. A great deal of pleasure seemed to be derived from each new flavor experience.

Invariably, each week, the couple would purchase large jars of every available varietal. Lèa Lelouch and Samuel Lelouch were the names on the credit cards — both true honey connoisseurs, and by far my best customers. I did wonder how this very fit couple, who were likely in their late 70s, could consume some 96 ounces of honey each week. It was a lot of calories, and you’d have to be putting it on or in everything. Where was this honey going? My curiosity was getting the best of me, so I decided to put the question to them. Politely, of course.

That Tuesday, when Lèa and Samuel approached the table, I greeted them cheerfully and struck up a conversation — first admiring their eye-catching attire, then marveling at the craftsmanship on Samuel’s multi-blue striped Façonnable button-down shirt. His crisp attire perfectly complemented Lèa’s classic taupe and periwinkle silk linen dress. Both had softly styled hair; Samuel’s was silver and wavy, while Lèa’s thick auburn tresses were pulled back into a loose chignon, offset by trendy Vuarnet sunglasses. As a couple, they stood out, though not in a flamboyant way. Their well-considered choices drew attention, especially in a farmers’ market where sweaty customers swung by after a long run or early morning bike ride, attired in athletic wear, and where families with little ones showed up in quasi-PJ ensembles. I applauded the effort the Lelouches put in — they were a beautiful and distinguished-looking pair. I imagined that the effort they made daily to dress attractively and stay in shape was surely a factor in their enduring relationship. They clearly revered one another, and as I would soon discover, had been married fifty-eight years.

Today, the Lelouches brought with them a red Radio Flyer wagon, the old-fashioned kind with wood slat sides. This particular one had seen a few trips around the block. Although a number of the customers brought wagons to the market, this was unusual for the Lelouches, and they frankly didn’t seem like the type of people who’d ever had children, so how was it they had a wagon lying about? There was something about their demeanor, their fastidiousness, and the methodical way they went about their shopping that led one to believe they’d never experienced the chaos and messiness of parenthood.

And it was these characteristics that pleased everyone with whom they came into contact: their patience, their graciousness, their enthusiasm, and, as I would soon learn, their generosity. Even the children at the market were calm and relaxed around Lèa and Samuel, often looking up curiously to see what type of person spoke with this unfamiliar accent. The Lelouches always acknowledged children, speaking politely to them as if they were peers, inquiring about the things they liked at the booth, and sampling the honey with them.

I’m sure many wondered, as I did, how the Lelouches came to be in our small town in northern California. What had they done over the course of their lives? Where was their family?

The community knew Léa and Samuel primarily as a retired couple, but they clearly had means that must have been acquired through some sort of vocation. Despite these gaps in our understanding of their history, the Lelouches were as much a part of our community as anyone. We saw them at neighborhood restaurants, walking their dog at the park downtown, shopping at the local hardware store, and attending concerts. Based on their ages and accents, one might infer they had spent their childhoods in France during World War II; however, given their familiarity with local customs, it is likely that they spent most of their adult lives in the United States. Though more affluent than most of their neighbors, based on their attire and the Land Rover they drove up in, the Lelouches showed respect toward all people, treating everyone at the market as their equal — the farmers, the artisans, the food purveyors, the other customers and their children, and the beekeeper — me. They were kind people, through and through.

On that particular Tuesday, when Lèa and Samuel arrived at my booth with their rickety old wagon, they were especially animated and talkative — something was in the works. For starters, they wanted to try all the honey varietals I had in stock, and since there was no one else in line, I allowed them to sample everything. Especially intriguing to them was the dark and viscous winter honey. They were curious to know where the bees had been foraging to make honey of this sort, so I took out my phone and gave them a photo tour of the places on the ranch where the hives resided, pointing out the winter-blooming plants that had contributed to the honey’s distinctive flavor. We then worked our way through the star thistle and black sage honeys, accompanied by more pictures of a field near the ranch full of star thistle, and then of my flower garden, full of herbs, including black sage. Rounding out the tasting was my crystal-clear clover honey — perfect for high tea. This honey was a sweet synthesis of the nearly a dozen types of clover that grew on the ranch. Its delicate, flowery essence darted from the palate as swiftly as a hummingbird, leaving a pure sweetness in its wake.

“Were there any other, more unusual varietals?” they inquired. Out came the blackberry, lavender, and avocado honeys. In tasting these, the Lelouches appeared transported to the Provençial countryside of their childhood — their faces suggesting a gustatory memory mingling with the dopamine rush from the sugar.

Aiming to bring this leisurely tasting to a close, I offered the Lelouches a bit of hot Earl Grey, poured into small paper cups from my insulated carafe. As they drifted back to earth, the sugar buzz replaced by a hit of caffeine, it was decided, by Samuel, that they would purchase all the honey I had on hand. Yes, every last jar.

This was not a small purchase, as you might imagine — larger, in fact, than most of my bulk orders. Under my tent were 48 large jars of the winter honey and 336 small jars of assorted varietals. The grand total: $7800. I proceeded to offer the Lelouches a 10% volume discount, but Lèa insisted on paying the full price. “Whatever is this for?” I inquired, surprised both by the size of their purchase and their insistence on paying full retail. Lèa, smiling, said simply, “We take joy in sharing what we love with those we love — everyone in our community. And you deserve every cent — we know how hard you work.” Without hesitation, Samuel pulled out his Platinum card. The deal was done.

I helped the Lelouches to their car with the first batch of honey, then we returned to the booth to fill up the wagon a second time. On this go-around, the Lelouches requested I open all the boxes containing small jars. Once everything was situated to their satisfaction in the wagon, off they went to do their usual shopping.

It was a curiosity to all at the market — Lèa and Samuel Lelouche towing a wagon full-to-the-brim with jars of honey, a massive spray of colorful dahlias tucked in the middle. Up and down the aisles of tents they went, folks coming over to take a peek and to inquire about all that honey. What was it for?

After chatting briefly with each couple and their little ones, and the ladies who’d just finished playing pickleball, and that indigent fellow pushing his exhaust-free mode of transportation, Samuel would give each group or individual a considered once-over, glancing at what was in their shopping bags and how they dressed, as if to ascertain which honey they would most enjoy. He would then reach down into one of his many boxes and pull out a jar, offering it up with enthusiasm — a precious gift, collected by so many bees, he would tell them, with nectar from this very region they were all so lucky to inhabit. He thanked them for being his neighbors and said he looked forward to seeing them around town.

Léa smiled as faces lit up — the honey, a wholesome indulgence that was cost-prohibitive for many, was a welcome surprise, an Easter gift to remember, and it was from that kind and graceful Jewish couple one always saw about town, who likely did not even celebrate this particular holiday.

Lèa and Samuel — they never took for granted their good fortune, nor the happiness that came from being part of this community — a place where every type of person was welcome. This was their home.